


I've Just Seen a Face

by sleeprettydarling



Category: Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, you can just look at this as a friendship fic if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5298482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeprettydarling/pseuds/sleeprettydarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Paul saw John before July 6, 1957, and one time he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Just Seen a Face

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this quote:
> 
> ”I know how I saw John. He was just a ted, on the bus – greasy hair, long sideburns, shuffling around like he was Mr Hard. And I saw him on the top deck of the bus often, before I met him. Saw him in the queue at a chip shop once. And I thought, “He looks cool.” - Paul McCartney [[x](http://www.wxhc.com/?p=6279)]
> 
> Thanks as always to my wonderful friend, [Kenzie](http://twinkpaul.tumblr.com), for giving me ideas, criticism, and encouraging me to post this little ficlet.

**I.**

The first time Paul sees him, they're both in line at the chip shop.  The teddy boy is two people ahead of Paul, so all Paul can see is broad, squarish shoulders covered in leather, greasy hair combed back.  It's not exactly an uncommon sight; it seems Paul sees them everywhere lately.  Another day, Paul might not have noticed him at all.  But today, for whatever reason, he does. 

He watches those shoulders as the line inches along, the smell of chips and grease hanging heavy around them.  The line moves enough to allow the other boy to step into a shaft of sunlight, which turns his hair into bright auburn fire.  He reminds Paul of autumn, orange twilight and colored leaves. 

Paul wishes he'd turn around, because he has to know what his face looks like.  He wants to know how old he is, wants to see if his skin is a blanket of freckles, because he's heard somewhere that a real redhead's should be. 

The line moves and the boy's hair is brown again.  A warm brown.  Paul's mind drifts and he thinks about a song, but he can't remember if it's one he's heard or one he just made up. 

The line moves again and he remembers that his mother wanted him home early. 

By the time Paul has his chips in hand, munching on a few as he makes his way home, he's forgotten about the boy from the chip shop entirely. 

 

**II.**

Paul's on the upper deck of a bus, forehead resting against the window.  It's been a long day and he's tired, thinking about closing his eyes and letting the familiar rumbling of the bus put him to sleep.  Maybe he would have, if he hadn't just missed his stop last week for the same reason. 

He shifts his head so he can see his own reflection in the glass, pulling a face and making himself laugh.  He knows he's not alone, but it doesn't matter—at least it keeps him awake.  He has to readjust every now and then, chasing the shadows, finding the perfect angle to see himself. 

When the sun slides out from behind its blanket of clouds, hot on his back, there's a flash of _orange-red-autumn_ reflected in the window.  Something in Paul's chest catches and he squints at the glass, trying to make the image reappear, until he realizes he can turn around and look for himself. 

And there he is, the boy from the chip shop, lounging in the back of the bus as if he owns it, arms spread out along the back of the seat, legs kicked out in front of him.  He's younger than Paul thought, for as big as he seemed in the chip shop.  Beside him is a blonde boy and they're talking, rapidly, one voice on top of the other.  It takes Paul a moment to distinguish the two, mostly because he can't believe that the lighter, more melodic voice could possibly belong to the chip shop boy. 

It's only when the blonde boy stops, rests his chin on his hands just to listen, that Paul knows for sure.  There's a peculiar lilt to his voice, like poetry, and Paul suddenly thinks he could listen to him talk all day.

The talking cuts off in an abrupt burst of laughter from the pair of them.  Paul wishes he could be back there with them, in on their secret joke.  He suddenly hopes they didn't notice him making faces at himself, that his apparent idiocy isn't what they find so hysterically funny. 

He doesn't want to imagine that such a lovely sound could ever be meant to hurt him. 

 

**III.**

Paul looks for him every time he boards the bus, but the chip shop boy doesn't appear again until he's ready.  From the upper deck, Paul watches him board, and he feels a strange mix of _nervous-excited-scared_.  They're not going to talk.  The other boy is not even going to notice him, even if he happens to join Paul on the upper deck.  Paul decides at that moment that he must be intimidated by the other boy, which is odd, because he doesn't feel that way often. 

Paul, after all, is talented.  _Refined_ , though he hates to admit it; his mother's insistence on using the Queen's English is rubbing off on him.  What does a rough, greasy teddy boy have that he doesn't? 

The chip shop boy clambers onto the upper deck, hands shoved in his pockets, cigarette behind his ear.  He strides right past Paul—leaving behind the smell of smoke and beer and something warm, kind of like bread—and it's the first time Paul gets a clear view of his face. 

Narrow eyes, heavy brows, a sharp, beak-like nose. 

In less than a second the moment has passed, and Paul whirls around for another look.  All he can see is that broad, leather clad back, making its way to the back of the bus. 

He's cool.  That's all there is to it. 

He has the whole teddy boy demeanor, the clothes, the swagger, and maybe if it were just that Paul wouldn't care.  But there's also something elegant about him, something mysterious and soft.  Paul thinks again of autumn, the biting cold outside contrasting with the heat and comfort indoors, and he wonders if the teddy boy appearance is just a front to hide something delicate and warm. 

It's silly, and Paul dismisses the thought as soon as it forms.  He's wasted too much time thinking about someone he doesn't even know, someone he'll never be close to. 

Still, Paul listens to the boy whistle to himself as they ride, and it's strangely soothing.  It's a tune Paul recognizes from the radio, and he's surprised to find himself tapping his heel in time. 

When he gets home, he smoothes back the sides of his hair and puts one of his mother's cigarettes behind his ear—just to see how it'd look. 

 

**IV.**

It's rare that Paul has some extra money to spend, but when he does he comes here.  He's been going through rows of records for at least an hour now, looking at each one by one, because his selection has to be perfect.  It doesn't even have to be rock 'n' roll, but Paul is inevitably drawn to that section of the shop anyway. 

He's examining a new Little Richard single when someone passes by the other side of the display.  They never stop, but a handful of records falls onto the floor, and Paul realizes it's the chip shop boy—and he's just shoved a record into the back of his drainies. 

Paul is hit with the absurd urge to pick up the mess before someone sees it, realizing that the other boy stole a record off the display and knocked some down in the process.  To Paul's surprise, the chip shop boy doesn't seem alarmed.  Instead, he begins to whistle, flicking through some records on another display, so casual that Paul has to wonder if he made the whole thing up. 

But no, he knows what he saw.  There's at least one record hidden under that leather jacket, maybe more, and there's something strangely admirable about it.  Not about stealing, exactly—it's not fair that Paul has to save up his money to buy records while people like this just take them for free, but…  His hands aren't even trembling, there's a relaxed smirk on that angular face, and Paul knows he could never be that cool.  Never in his life. 

Paul's hands shake as he picks the records off the floor and stacks them neatly back on the display.  He didn't do anything wrong, but there's some sort of thrill in knowing that he might have helped.

 

**V.**  

The bus is late.  Or maybe Paul is early. 

He settles on the bench to wait, stretching his legs out in front of him and lighting a cigarette.  He's still new at it, and it takes him a couple of tries to get his lighter to spark.  Once he's got it, he sucks in a lungful of smoke that has finally stopped making him cough. 

He wonders if he looks cool, lounging here smoking.  He did his hair a little differently today; it's not quite teddy boy hair—his mother would never let him leave the house—but it's _teddy boy-esque_ , Paul thinks.  It's just combed back, really; nothing to hold it in place.  He flips his collar up and pretends he looks the part. 

He's vaguely aware of someone approaching, and they've sat down beside him before he fully registers their presence.  All at once, he's tense and annoyed that someone would join him without even asking if the seat was available.  Paul turns and there's the chip shop boy, solid and real and _right next to him_ , and Paul's head jerks forward. 

He won't look at him.  He can't.  He needs to focus on breathing, pretend that this isn't everything he's simultaneously wanted and dreaded all this time.  They're not close enough to touch, but Paul can feel warmth budding in the empty space between them.  The other boy stretches out, sighs, and his arms reach along the length of the bench.  His arm isn't _around_ Paul, but at the same time it is, and Paul suddenly realizes if he leans back at all they'll be touching. 

They should talk, probably.  Normal people would talk.  Wouldn't they?  Paul suddenly isn't sure.  He doesn't think the other boy has even glanced at him, so Paul shouldn't look at him, either. 

It's hard not to. 

Paul's eyes keep cutting to the side, stealing glances.  The boy's eyes are soft, almost the color of his hair.  Again Paul's struck by the shape of his nose, the careful placement of his hair.  He has long sideburns that are impossibly thick for someone his age, and Paul feels something between awe and jealousy.  Paul doesn't know if he wants to be this strange, beautiful, thieving teddy boy, or if—

If what? 

Paul can't follow that train of thought to its logical conclusion until he's safe on the bus, away from the overwhelming smell and warmth and _presence_ of him.  Paul doesn't know if he wants to be him or be his friend. 

That's all there is. 

 

**&**

It's Halloween.  1956.  A Wednesday. 

John doesn't usually care for dates, but this is one he thinks he'll remember.  He's just left the chip shop, a hot, fresh packet of chips shoved into his pocket for the ride home.  It burns nicely against his side, and he walks a little faster. 

There's nothing different about today, nothing special, but when John climbs to the upper deck of the bus, something makes him look.  There's a boy sitting against the window, curled in on himself, trembling.  John can't make out his features, he's just a blur like the rest of John's surroundings, but John can feel the sadness coming off him in waves.  It's enough that John gives him a wide berth when he passes by, as if it's something contagious. 

Maybe it is.

John's been having a good day, but when he takes his usual seat at the back of the bus, he feels uneasy.  Guilty.  What was he supposed to do?  A boy crying was pathetic enough, but in public?  Unforgiveable.  If anything, John should be making fun of him.

But there's something about him that's familiar.  John knows they've never met, the other boy looks too young to be anyone John would ever associate with, but maybe he's seen him around.  He's like an old blanket, the kind that's always been there but no one can remember where it came from.  The edges may be frayed, but it's not ruined yet.  It just has to be handled carefully. 

There doesn't seem to be anyone else around, and for whatever reason, John's curious.  He shoves his glasses on, and from this angle, he can see everything.  The boy's shoulders are hitching in that small way that means he doesn't want to be noticed, that he'd rather be anywhere but here, holding back tears on a public bus.

But it seems he can't stop himself.  He's quiet mostly, but sometimes John hears him suck in a shuddering breath, exhale a swear.  The boy hates himself for this, that much is obvious, his fist thumping absently against the window. 

John wonders who died.  He wants to ask.  If the answer is 'no one', then at least he can make a joke out of it. 

There's nothing to do but watch him, so that's what John does for the rest of the ride.  The boy is able to calm himself down a few times, letting out a shuddering breath that makes John think it's over, but something gets him started again. 

John is interested to know where the boy will get off, but John's stop comes first.  It feels wrong to leave him there alone, but it's not like there's anything John can do. 

He stands, and that's when he feels the lingering warmth of the chips press against him.  The packet is slightly crushed from riding in his pocket, damp from the steam, but as John passes the crying boy, it seems only right to leave it there.  He places it on the seat beside him, close but not touching, and leaves before the boy can look up. 

Maybe he'll just throw it away, but maybe it will make him smile.  John doesn't know why, but right now, that's all he wants. 

 


End file.
